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Return to Pearl: 21 September 1943 to 8 November 1943
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It was Tuesday morning, September 21, 1943. Orca, running submerged and having cleared the northernmost Ryukyus Island of Amami, was now running flat out on the surface, heading due east. The boat would not make a turn to east southeast and head for Pearl until she had passed north of the tiny unoccupied Japanese islands of Katano and Nakanoshima, the northernmost cluster of volcanic islands that stretched across the Pacific directly in their path.
“Well, Hal,” Jake asked Lt. Harold Chapman, his Engineer Officer, “have we got enough diesel to make it to Pearl, or should we be heading to Midway to top off?”
“Well Skipper, if we restrict our surface running to three engines, we can still make about fourteen knots on the surface and make it all the way to Pearl. That fourth engine just sucks down the fuel, and doesn’t really give us all that much added speed.”
“Sounds good,” Jake replied. “We can’t lose too much time if our day running is restricted, certainly no more than we would lose if we stopped at Midway. Let’s go for it.”
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Orca approached her berth at the submarine pier at SUBASE Pearl Harbor on Monday morning, October 9th. Jake figured that running on just three engines on the surface had cost Orca almost a day in transit, but it had been worth it to avoid a stopover in Midway—and a greater delay for Orca’s homecoming.
From the bridge, Jake searched among the people lining the pier as they arrived. COMSUBPAC, Rear Admiral Lockwood, and the Squadron Commander, Cpt. Clarence Macdonough were conspicuous at the front of the awaiting crowd. But it wasn’t them Jake was looking for.
When he finally spotted Kate, not thirty feet away, he almost didn’t recognize her. But it was definitely Kate. She was smiling widely and waving, along with everyone else on the pier, wearing a shapeless yellow print dress that was designed to conceal her almost-three-months-pregnant belly—not that there was that much belly yet to be concealed.
Jake had expected her to look pregnant, and it wasn’t the presence or absence of a belly that made her look somehow different. She looked somehow softer, somehow more lush, than the Kate he had left behind at their cottage that Thursday, last.
And she never looked more beautiful.
Her eyes were locked on his, and he figured she had probably spotted him before he had spotted her. He was musing on how grimy he probably looked, and how badly he must stink—despite the Navy shower he had taken three hours earlier.
Jake was still lost in his own reverie when Clem, standing beside him on the bridge, rudely elbowed him and shouted, “Jake, look! Oh my God! It can’t be, but it is! Look! On the pier! It’s Miriam!”
Kate was at least a head taller than the pretty woman with the reddish-brown hair and the broad smile standing next to her. Jake had been so absorbed with seeing Kate that he had overlooked Miriam entirely. He had last seen Miriam in Groton, on that blustery morning—was it really only ten months ago?—when Orca set off for the Panama Canal on her way to Pearl. Miriam Dwyer had looked miserable that December morning on the pier, teary-eyed and inconsolable, standing beside and being supported by a solid and stoic Louise Buckner. Jake remembered how miserable Clem had looked as well, as he half-heartedly waved goodbye to his wife. That memory, he knew, was the reason he insisted that he and Kate part at their cottage two months earlier, rather than see him off from the pier.
So much had happened in those two months that the passage of time had seemed that much longer. He took a mental inventory: two war patrols; “The Slot”; Brisbane; depth charges and jammed stern planes; men struggling in the water; Stinger maybe lost . . .
But now was not the time for depressing memories! He was home. And as happy as he was for Clem, he was every bit as happy for himself—no, more so—because he had come home to Kate!
Also on the pier that morning, greeting her man aboard the arriving boat, was a pretty, brown-eyed blonde named Daisy Norton, standing next to a suitcase that contained all her worldly belongings. And Joe Bob Clanton could not have been more surprised—nor happier—to see her.
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“Look at you, Jake Lawlor, you’re all rumpled and you stink to high heavens!” exclaimed Kate.
Jake could only grin back at her, ecstatic that his appearance and his aroma had not stopped his wife from hugging him and kissing him with vigor and passion, the memory of which had sustained him over some very difficult moments.
The admiral and Cpt. Macdonough were the first people over the gangway. Jake and Clem were there to meet them, saluting Lockwood and the commodore aboard.
“Hell of a job, men! Hell of a job!” the admiral said with a broad grin. “But there’s time enough for an official debriefing with me and my staff in the morning. Let the relief crew take over, you men go home with your lovely wives, and that’s an order. See you both in the morning, 0900. And Clem, your Miriam is lovely, just lovely! Now get out of here!”
Neither man argued, although Jake did stop to ask “Stinger?”
Lockwood frowned. “No word.”
Macdonough added, “Nothing. Probably lost.”
If the probable loss of Stinger cast a pallor over Jake’s joy at homecoming, it was quickly overcome as an exuberant Kate bundled him into their ’41 Olds and drove them off the base. They left behind an equally ecstatic Clem and Miriam; Clem not knowing why or how his wife was there in Pearl, but not, at least for the moment, questioning his good fortune.
“Will they be okay?” Jake asked. “Do they have a place to stay? Clem can’t take Miriam to the BO—”
“Don’t worry about them, silly. Miriam’s no dummy. She’s been planning this for months. There’s a cab waiting to take them to a rental in town, and his stuff from the BOQ is already there.”
“And how do you know all of this?”
“Because Miriam has been staying with me at the cottage for the past month. She’s on a year’s sabbatical from the college, and she doesn’t have to be back to work until classes resume next Fall. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, I guess it is. Wonderful.”
* * * * *
The last person Joe Bob Clanton expected to see in Pearl was Daisy. He had reconciled himself to the idea that she would never forgive him for promising to meet her that last night in Brisbane—and then never showing up. Of course he never reckoned on the grapevine that existed in the port of Brisbane, and foolishly assumed that the secret comings and goings of the Allied fleet remained well-kept secrets.
“I knew you’d of come to me if you could,” Daisy acknowledged, after their feverish embrace on the pier. “So,” she said with an impish smile, “I decided to come to you.”
“Where are you staying? Where can we go?” he asked.
“I’m not staying anywhere. I just got here two days ago, and it took everything I had to get here. I had to fib my way onto the base,” she explained. “Told them I was your wife. I’ve been sleeping in the park. At least the weather here is nice. And I do so need a bath, Love.”
Joe Bob, overcome with joy, grinned. “Well,” he said, “We’ll just have to find us a place.” He led her to a bus waiting to carry the crew to the Royal Hawaiian.
Once there, no one at the hotel questioned Joe Bob’s right to a room. The crew of the submarine Orca had just arrived in port, and everyone aboard her was entitled to R&R and a place to stay at the Royal Hawaiian, courtesy of the U.S. Navy. Of course it was unusual for anyone to show up with a woman and a suitcase in tow, but women came and went from the hotel at all hours, all the time, and nobody asked any questions.
* * * * *
Miriam Dwyer hadn’t seen her husband in months, ten months to be exact—not since he sailed away from her in Groton. She had given him a proper kiss and embrace, despite the man sweat and the diesel stink, and was still amazed, even after almost four years of marriage, at her physical reaction to his touch.
“What is this place?” Clem asked, as he surveyed the apartment on Keeaumoku Street in the Ala Moana district of Honolulu.
“Ours, for the next year or so,” she said. “I leased it until next Fall, when I have to be back in Connecticut, or until either your home port is changed, or you get transferred. The lease reads like a wish list.”
“How much is this costing us? Can we afford it?”
“What?” she said, her Irish up. “You haven’t seen me in ten months, and you have time for stupid questions?”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, cowed, and reached for her. “Now’s not the time for stupid questions.”
* * * * *
Back at the cottage, Jake stripped naked and headed for the shower. No “Navy shower” was necessary here. There was plenty of hot water, and he could run it for a long as he liked. He had just gotten the temperature of the water to his liking and was soaping down, when the curtain parted and Kate slipped in beside him. “Move over, sailor,” she said with an impish grin. It was a tight fit, but that didn’t seem to bother either of them.
Later, in bed, he said “You’re sure we didn’t hurt the baby?”
“Yes, you idiot, I’m sure.”
* * * * *
“This is nice,” Daisy said, as she looked about their room at the Royal Hawaiian.
“It’ll do for now,” said Joe Bob. “We can look for something more permanent tomorrow. Meanwhile, it’ll do just fine.”
She saw that look in his eyes, and felt her body tingle just as it had whenever he looked at her that way in Brisbane.
He came close to her and folded her in his arms.
“I do so need a bath,” she said.
“Later.”
* * * * *
At 0900 the following morning, crisp in their work khakis, Jake and Clem reported to squadron headquarters and Rear Adm. Lockwood for their debriefing. Clem had brought Orca’s logbook with him, and he and Jake referred to it as they gave their report.
When they were done, Lockwood commented:
“Jap reports say you disabled a nine-hundred-ton cargo transport at New Georgia. They were able to beach her, but were unable to unload any of her cargo before the Marines finally forced the Japs to abandon Bairoko. So, while technically you didn’t sink her, you might as well have, because she’s now rusting away on the beach off Bairoko, her cargo probably still rotted inside her.
“The wolf pack was far more successful. Orca and the three other boats claim fourteen ships, five of them tankers. The Japs admit to only five sunk ships, with seven damaged.”
If Jake wondered how the Admiral could be so sure about exactly what the Japanese claimed their losses were, he was smart enough not to inquire.
“By the way,” added Lockwood, “the Jap destroyer that screwed up your after torpedo tube off Bairoko thinks he sank you.”
“The other boats in the wolf pack?” Clem inquired. “How’d they make out?”
“You already know that Stinger is overdue,” Lockwood replied. “Devilray and Conch made it just fine to Midway. Tender there patched Devilray up as well as it could, but they couldn’t very well replace her periscopes. She’s due back here in Pearl tomorrow. Blaylock’s being relieved. Her new skipper, Joe Morgan, will take Devilray to Mare Island for a complete overhaul. They’ll replace her scopes there.”
“Warren Blaylock’s being relieved?” Jake was surprised.
“Made full commander. Has a new duty assignment, being sent to the Pentagon, that new headquarters building the War Department just opened. Maybe he can loosen a few screws there for us. By the way, he personally credited Orca with three of those MATA-4 kills, and you may well have gotten two more out of the last four kills. That’s damn good work.”
“Thank you, Sir, but that’s great news about Warren Blaylock,” Jake replied. “He’s a good man. And so’s Joe Morgan. He was in the class behind me at the Academy.”
“Right. Just made lieutenant commander early. He did such a great job as XO in Barbel, that the powers-that-be decided he deserved a promotion and a command right away—all on my recommendation of course. And, incidentally, I’ve also recommended you for a second Navy Cross,” he added with a smirk.
“Thank you, Sir!” Jake replied. “But I missed Harry Loveless. He on leave?” Jake asked.
“Nope, kicked him upstairs. He’s in Washington, reporting to Admiral King and the Joint Chiefs. King’s an old submariner, and they can swap sea stories.”
“And Conch?” Clem asked.
“Tender at Midway was able to replace her shaft seal, and Conch is back out on patrol. As for Stinger, as I told Jake, she’s officially missing, presumed lost. Jap destroyer escorting MARU-4 claims to have sunk her. Japs have been dead wrong about such things before, but maybe not this time.”
“Woody Berghoff was a hell of a good man,” Clem said. “He’ll be missed. Stinger will be missed.”
“Yes,” Lockwood said, “he will, she will, they all will.”
Jake nodded in silent agreement.
“Now tell me about this sonar plot idea of yours . . .”
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The next day, a crew from the yard came aboard Orca and inspected her damaged stern planes. Bucky followed them aft.
“Bitch of a place to get to,” said the lead petty officer, a submarine-qualified machinist’s mate first class—MM1(SS). “This’ll take us a while. All goes well, should be good in about a week, even with all the crawling in and out.”
“Good,” Bucky allowed.
Later the same day, Devilray came into port and subsequently tied up to her “permanent” berth just forward of Orca. Jake was among the first to welcome her, going aboard right after the admiral and the commodore, congratulating Warren Blaylock on his promotion and new assignment.
* * * * *
“So can we agree,” Kate asked, “after you, if it’s a boy, and Elizabeth Ann, after my mother, if it’s a girl?”
“I’m fine with Elizabeth Ann. And Jacob is okay if it’s a boy. But not a Junior. I wouldn’t wish ‘Julius’ as a middle name, on anybody.”
“Okay,” Kate laughed. They were lying together naked on the bed, and her newly outsized breasts jiggled when she laughed. “I forgot about the ‘Julius’ part. How about Jacob Joseph, then?”
“Yeah. Jacob Joseph is fine.”
“Jacob Joseph it is then,” she said, running her hand over her baby bump.
Jake reached out with his left hand and did the same. “When will he start to move?” he asked.
“First baby, not for about twenty-five weeks. So, she probably won’t move for another month or so.” Then, “Will you be very disappointed if it’s not a boy?”
“No, not at all. A girl would be just fine.” Jake leaned over and kissed Kate’s breast, nuzzling her, his hand moving down her belly.
“Again?” she asked. “So soon? You’re insatiable.”
“You have to admit,” he said, “it has been a while.”
“Yes it has,” she agreed, gasping as his fingers touched her core.
* * * * *
“And you’re sure you want to marry her? You know, we weren’t in Brisbane for even a week. You hardly know this woman,” Clem said. “And she looks really young. How old is she, anyway?”
“She’s eighteen,” said Joe Bob, defiantly. “I know all I need to know, Clem. I know we want to get married.”
Joe Bob had to have his CO’s permission to get married. It was usually only a formality, a permission given almost automatically—but this was different. He knew that Jake might well deny his permission, and Joe Bob knew that, from the world’s point of view, Jake would have every good reason to withhold it. But he also knew, deep in his heart, that the world was all wrong about Daisy and him.
Joe Bob knew better than go directly to Jake. If his skipper turned him down and they went ahead with the marriage anyway, his Navy career would be over, and he might well begin his married life in the brig. He figured that if he could convince the XO to let him marry Daisy, then his skipper would be sure to follow his XO’s advice. And if the XO turned him down, he still had the option of appealing to Jake.
“Why not wait?” Clem asked. “If you’re sleeping with her anyway, why not just wait until you’re absolutely sure, and then marry her?”
Joe Bob seethed. His XO, a man he thought was his friend, had just implied that his relationship with Daisy was something he should take lightly, something that he could be flippant about, even, perhaps, that it was something sordid.
Clem registered the look on Joe Bob’s face. “I’m sorry, Joe Bob, that was way out of line.” Then, “Look, I’ll see what I can do. Talk to the Captain. But I can’t promise you anything.”
Mollified, Joe Bob said “Thanks, Clem. I really appreciate this. You won’t regret it.”
Clem thought, I really hope I won’t, but kept the thought to himself.
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Clem had approved his qualification notebook, and now Bill Salton was doing his in-port qualification. That meant a grueling half-day spent with the skipper of another boat, answering his questions, demonstrating his competence. He had drawn Lt. Cmdr. David Brandenburg, USN, skipper of the USS Moray, a man who had a reputation, among all the junior officers who had qualified under him, as a hardass. He reported to Brandenburg at 1300.
“So, Ensign, you think you should be wearing dolphins, eh?” Brandenburg said, as soon as Salton reported to him aboard Moray.
“Yes, Sir, I do.”
Confident, Brandenburg thought. I like that. Then aloud, he said, “Very well, Mr. Salton, we’ll see. Tell me about the batteries aboard this boat.”
Salton went about describing the batteries in detail: type (lead-acid); number of cells (126 each); voltage for each cell (1.06 to 2.75 volts depending on the state of charge); approximate weight of each cell (1,650 pounds).
“Very well, Mr. Salton. can you tell me the dimensions of each cell?”
“Yes, Sir. Each cell is fifty-four by fifteen by twenty-four inches.”
“Very good, Mr. Salton, but somebody probably told you I’d ask that. Tell me about hydrogen gas generation. At what point does it become dangerous?”
Bill recited the textbook from memory: “All submarine batteries produce hydrogen by electrically breaking down water into its gaseous components. Hydrogen is flammable in air at mixtures above four percent hydrogen, and will explode at mixtures over eighteen percent. Any spark can set off a flammable or explosive mixture of hydrogen in air.”
Brandenburg scowled. “Text book. Okay. Let’s go aft.” He led Bill to an evaporator. “Show me how to operate an evaporator, Mr. Salton.”
Bill walked him through the process, pointing out each switch and each valve in the process. This time, at least, Bill noted, Brandenburg didn’t scowl. “Very good, Mr. Salton.”
And so it went on like that for the day.
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At 1800, after five grueling hours, Brandenburg had finally run out of questions and exercises for his examinee. They had covered just about every system aboard Moray, from the ventilation system to the hydraulic plant, to mock-manipulating the electrical manifold. With few exceptions, Bill had correctly answered just about every question thrown at him, and had been able to operate every piece of equipment on which he was tested.
Finally, Brandenburg shook his hand. And he was actually smiling. “My compliments to Mr. Dwyer. He has prepared you well. You’re a credit to him, your captain, and to your boat. You may tell Clem Dwyer that I’m satisfied, and that you’ve passed your in-port exam. Congratulations, Bill.”
“Yessir, Captain! Thank you, Sir.” Salton beamed. Now there was only the underway exam to pass.
* * * * *
“Joe Bob is nuts,” Jake fumed. “There is no way he could be ready to marry this woman after—what?—knowing her for all of a week?”
“I know, Jake, and I concur completely. But be honest. How long did it take you to be sure about Kate?”
“That’s different. I’m a grown man. Joe Bob’s still a kid.”
“Is he? He’s twenty-five, and that makes him older than most of the crew. He’s beyond old enough to vote and to drink hard liquor. Hell, he’s a Lieutenant jay-gee in the Navy, for heaven’s sake.”
“Maybe so. But it’s a matter of maturity. Joe Bob still acts like a kid. Look at Bill Salton, he’s only an ensign, but he’s way more mature than Joe Bob.”
“I’ll give you that,” Clem admitted, then smiled, “but Bill’s also more mature than a lot of lieutenant commanders I know!”
Jake laughed aloud. “And I’ll give you that. But really, Clem, I think Joe Bob’s making a big mistake.”
“Probably. But I think we’ll be making a bigger one if we stand in his way. He’s a good officer. Very smart. Does his job well. Bit lazy, maybe, but then I’d be comparing him to Salton, and that’s not exactly fair. I think we should let him do what he’s made up his mind to do anyway.”
“Okay. I hope we’re doing the right thing. Get the paperwork started.”
* * * * *
“She’s done, Chief. New cylinder’s in, the hydraulics have been bled, and the system tested out. Time to check ‘er out on your own,” announced the MM1(SS) in charge.
First Bucky crawled into the after torpedo room bilge and checked out the installation. The hydraulic system had been turned on, and was pressurized. Everything looked shipshape, there were no hydraulic oil leaks, and the crew had done a good job cleaning up after themselves. There had, he knew, been a good deal of hydraulic oil spilled in the course of the repair, but none of that was in evidence.
“Nice clean job,” he said to the MM1(SS), and the man beamed. “Now let’s check ’er out.”
He stationed a man on the stern with sound-powered phones plugged into the boat’s communications system, with a long lead through the open after torpedo room hatch. In the control room, he operated the stern planes control, and the talker on the stern verified that the planes were moving from full dive to full rise and back again. Then Bucky crawled back into the bilge again to insure that there had been no hydraulic oil leaks in the interim. There were none.
“Good job. Outstanding. Where do I sign off on it?” The MM1(SS) smiled broadly and handed Bucky the sign-off sheet.
Only when he was satisfied that Orca was once again shipshape could Bucky relax, and there were still lots of minor maintenance issues that needed to be addressed. He had considered boarding a military flight to the mainland, en route to Groton and his Louise—but there just wasn’t enough time. It was already October 13th, and he knew he and the rest of the crew needed to be back aboard Orca on November 2nd. By the time he got to the mainland and took the train across the continent to Groton, he would only have time to kiss Louise and turn around for the trip back. Maybe after the next patrol. Or more than likely, he thought, not until the boat goes in for major overhaul. Or maybe not ‘til this damn war ends.
* * * * *
As weddings go, it wasn’t much—a Justice of the Peace at the government building in downtown Honolulu. Clem and Miriam were there as witnesses, as Joe Bob and Daisy exchanged vows. Hal Chapman, Louie Carillo, and Early Sender were on leave, and on the mainland in San Diego with their wives. Bill Salton was at sea aboard Bullshark, having spent the night before readying a practice torpedo for a mock attack on a cooperative destroyer in Mamala Bay, and then getting Bullshark underway at 0600. The only others attending the wedding were Jake, Kate, and four enlisted men from Joe Bob’s crew in Orca’s radio shack.
Joe Bob had asked for a week’s leave for a honeymoon, and it had been granted. The couple planned to spend it seeing the sights on the Big Island, where Joe Bob had booked a room at the Hilo Hawaiian. After that, they planned to return to Oahu and find a place for Daisy to stay near the base.
* * * * *
Of course the commissary was bereft of gold dolphins. Jake found his spare pin and personally pinned it on Bill Salton’s uniform. Bill was roundly congratulated by the few people who were still aboard Orca. Jake and Clem took him to the “O” Club at 1800, where Clarence Macdonough, Dave Brandenburg, and Foster Dwight, the CO of Bullshark, tipped a few brews with the newly qualified ensign in celebration. The drinks were on Bill, of course.
Now, Joe Bob Clanton was the only officer aboard Orca who hadn’t qualified. Clem resolved to get on his case as soon as that boy returned from his honeymoon.
* * * * *
“Uncle Charlie wants to see you,” Commodore Macdonough said over the shoreline hookup to Orca.
“The admiral wants to see me? Am I in trouble?” Jake asked.
The commodore chuckled over the phone line. “Not hardly. Wants to talk to you about the sonar plot thing. After I told him about it, he thinks it might be something worth exploring. Any reason you can’t be in his office at ten?”
“No, Sir, Commodore, I’ll be there!”
At 1000 sharp, Jake was outside of the office of Rear Adm. Charles Lockwood, the Commander of the Pacific Submarine Fleet. Jake was ushered into the admiral’s office by the khaki-clad lieutenant who was the admiral’s aide. Seated on a wing chair next to the admiral’s desk was Commodore Macdonough; he was smoking a huge cigar. The admiral rose to greet him, an equally huge stogie smoldering away in an ashtray on his desk.
“Come in Jake. Good to see you! You know Captain Macdonough, of course.” The two men nodded politely to each other as the Admiral asked, “Have a cigar? They’re Cuban.”
“No, thank you, Admiral, I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, right. Says in your dossier that you have no bad habits.”
Jake smiled. “Where does it say that, Admiral? Somebody’s been passing along some bad dope.”
Lockwood chuckled. “Now sit down and tell me about this new idea of yours. Tell me about sonar plot.” He indicated an overstuffed chair on the other side of the desk.
Jake sat down and told the Admiral of his attempt to collate and make sense of the information coming from sonar by plotting it on paper. He described the inconsistencies between sonar, passive sonar in particular, and the more reliable information coming from visual observations and radar.
“But visual observations and radar require you to expose yourself on the surface,” Lockwood observed.
“Exactly, Admiral. The information from sonar, especially passive sonar, is squirrely, though, and not entirely reliable. There are salinity layers and thermoclines that change how sound propagates underwater.”
The Admiral frowned, processing the information. “Active sonar is much better,” he said. “I used the sonar plot information almost exclusively with my last shots at the convoy, and while I wasn’t on the surface to observe the kill through the periscope, I’m pretty sure we hit our targets. In any case, the convoy started out that night with seven ships, and afterward there were only three. Of course, it’s entirely possible that Stinger got all four kills.”
“But not highly likely,” Macdonough volunteered. “Sounds more to me like Woody Berghoff made two kills before the escorts got to him, and the other two are Orca’s. But, of course, we’ll probably never know for sure.”
“Maybe not,” Lockwood agreed, “but the sonar plot idea has definite merit. Write it up, Jake, and get it to our bosses ASAP. You should be in port for a few more days yet. Should be enough time.”
Jake, figuring he was dismissed, got up to leave.
“One minute more, Jake, we have something else to discuss.”
“Sir?”
Macdonough scowled, but the admiral kept on. “You know we have new boats coming on line, more every day . . .” He paused for comment, but Jake kept his silence. He guessed what was coming. “. . . I need skippers, Jake, good men, trained submarine leaders.”
Jake raised his right hand, as if to stop the admiral. “I think Clem Dwyer would make an excellent CO, Admiral.”
Lockwood beamed. “And so do we, Jake, both the commodore and I. But keep it under your hat for the time being, until we talk to Dwyer.”
“Yessir,” Jake replied, and left. Somehow, he noted, he felt strangely saddened and elated at the same time.
The following day, Jake got the word that Orca was to be ready to leave for her next patrol on November 8th. Now he knew why he was told that everyone who took leave had to report back by November 2nd.
* * * * *
Clem wondered why he had been summoned to the commodore’s office. He couldn’t think of anything he had screwed up. Maybe the commodore just wanted his opinion of Jake’s sonar plot idea. He hoped that was all it was.
“Clem,” the commodore began, “why the hell are you out of uniform?”
“Sir?” Clem asked, taken aback.
Macdonough smiled and handed Clem a little box, opened to display a set of gold oak leaves. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Commander Dwyer.”
“Oh my God, Commodore! But it’s too soon. I’m not even in the zone for another six months—”
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Mr. Dwyer. There’s a war on!”
“Yessir! Believe me, Sir, I’m not complaining. I’m just so surprised!”
Macdonough beamed. “And that’s not even the half of it. I’m detaching you from Orca. Much as I hate to break up the team of Lawlor and Dwyer, we’ve another assignment for you.”
Now Clem was really stunned. First the promotion, now this. What was going on? He hoped they weren’t going to give him shore duty like they gave Warren Blaylock.
“Moray is leaving to go on patrol on November tenth, two days after Orca leaves port. You’ll be aboard her, reporting to Dave Brandenburg for your PCO cruise.”
“Yes, Sir,” Clem said, repeating his new orders aloud, assuring himself that he had heard it all correctly: “Moray, November tenth, PCO cruise.”
Macdonough reached out and handed Clem a sealed packet. “Good luck, Clem, and again, congratulations. The official notice of your promotion, and your new orders are all in here. It’s all official, and your promotion and your orders are dated today, so you can tell anyone with the need to know, including your lovely wife. Jake knew about your orders, but not the promotion, so you’ll be able to tell him something he doesn’t already know!”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir!” A still overwhelmed Clem shook the commodore’s proffered hand and navigated his way out of his office. He found the men’s room and removed the railroad tracks from his shirt collar and replaced them with his new oak leaves. Preening, he smiled broadly at himself in the mirror.
* * * * *
Jake had spoken at length with the commodore about who was to replace Clem as Orca’s XO. The commodore had suggested several men, well-qualified submariners from other boats, but Jake said he would prefer to promote from within; he wanted someone who had trained under Clem and him and was already familiar with Orca. He wanted to make Hal Chapman his new XO.
What he didn’t tell the commodore was that he had already floated the idea to Clem and Bucky, and both had agreed that Chapman would be an excellent XO.
“Well,” the commodore finally agreed, “Chapman’s certainly senior enough, and he’s definitely XO material. Okay, Jake, I won’t argue with your judgment. Chapman it is. I’ll see to it that the orders are cut. But say nothing to anyone until it’s official. The admiral still has to sign off on it, and while he’s unlikely to have any objections, it’s still not official until he does.”
“Yes, Sir. Not a word to anyone until it’s official.”
* * * * *
Joe Bob hiked up his pants and fastened his belt. “Well Doc, what’s going on? What’s wrong with me?”
Joe Bob and Pharmacist Mate First Class Corey “Doc” Clanton had, in Jake’s absence, appropriated the captain’s cabin where Doc could examine Joe Bob in some privacy.
“Sorry, Mr. Clanton, but you have gonorrhea.”
“I . . . what? I’ve got the clap? Are you sure?”
“Positive. But you’re welcome to get my diagnosis confirmed at the base hospital.”
“No, no, I believe you. It’s just . . .” It was just that Joe Bob hadn’t been with anyone but Daisy since Orca had left for her third patrol last Summer. “How long have I had it, Doc, can you tell?”
“Not really. But it can’t be that long. Sometimes, men are asymptomatic for several weeks, but it usually shows up anywhere from a couple of days to a week or so.”
“Can you do anything for it? Can you cure me?”
“Sulfonamide is the standard treatment, a daily dose for three weeks.”
“What can you do for me? Can you get me some?”
“Oh, I can get the drug all right, but I have to tell the dispensary who and what I’m getting it for. There was a disciplinary punishment attached to catching clap, loss of pay, I think, but I’m pretty sure that’s been rescinded. Too many guys weren’t reporting it, and cases were going untreated until they got really bad. But—”
“No, I don’t want this to get out. Can a civilian doctor get the drug?”
“Probably. You would have to check that out for yourself.”
“Okay. Thanks, Doc. Unless you hear otherwise from me, forget about this, will you?”
“Sure, Mr. Clanton. I never saw you.”
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Dr. Donald Fong, M.D., practiced medicine out of an office attached to his residence on Ahana Street, not too far from Joe Bob and Daisy’s apartment. Fong was a short, round man with a moon face, who wore rimless pince-nez glasses. The idea of a Chinese doctor wasn’t half as disconcerting to Joe Bob as was a Chinese doctor who spoke flawless English.
Joe Bob was in civvies: blue linen slacks, and a light gray short-sleeved shirt.
“No doubt about it, Mr. and Mrs. Clanton. I’ve examined the cultures I took from each of you under the microscope. You both definitely have gonorrhea. I recommend we start treatment immediately.”
“Great, Doctor, what treatment are you recommending?” asked Joe Bob. Daisy sat silently next to him with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast. She wore a gaily colored, print dress, one of the ones Joe Bob had bought for her to wear on their honeymoon.
“Prontosil,” said the doctor. “Used to be made by the Germans, but it’s now manufactured . . .”
Joe Bob tuned out Doctor Fong, as he churned over in his mind his confrontation with his wife the prior day.
He had just returned home from his meeting with “Doc” Shields:
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“I’ve got the clap, Daisy. How about that?”
“What? You’ve got what?!”
“Gonorrhea, Daisy, the clap, venereal disease, for God’s sake!”
“How did you get that?” she had asked. (She obviously had no indication whatsoever that she was sick.)
“How do you think?” (he remembered asking her). “I haven’t been with anybody but you for months. I caught it from you, Daisy.” (He was angry then, he remembered, and almost in tears.) “I caught it from you.”
Daisy’s face, he saw, went from registering genuine surprise and concern to absolute horror and fear. “No,” she said. “Please, no!”
“What have you done?” he asked. (He remembered that by then he was really angry.) “What the hell have you done?”
“I did it for you!” she cried. “I did it so I could be with you!”
“What?” (He didn’t believe her.) Her eyes—those eyes he loved so—then welled up with tears. “What did you do? Why?”
“How do you think I got the money to get here?” she shouted back at him, tears streaming down her face. “I had no money! I have no skills! How else was I going to get money?”
(He remembered telling her) “You could have written me and asked for it. I’d have sent it! You didn’t have to sell yourself for money!”
“Didn’t I? Would you really have sent for me?” she replied. “Would you have really, with that precious captain of yours doing his best to keep us apart? Would you have sent me money, Joe Bob? Would you? If I hadn’t been here waiting for you, would you really have sent for me? Would you have, really?”
“I would have. I would have,” he said (remembering how the anger had suddenly drained out of him). (He surely knew that he might very well not have, not with the skipper and the XO and just about everyone else doing their best to talk him out of it.) “I would have,” he said again, (not even believing it himself by then). “But God in heaven, Daisy, how could you whore yourself out? How could you even do that?”
“Oh Joe Bob,” she said, “I sold everything I owned, furniture, dishes, most of my clothes, everything, and I still didn’t have near enough money to get here. I begged and borrowed from everyone I knew, and I still didn’t have enough—I couldn’t think of anything else. I just knew I had to get here and see you again, so I just did what I had to do.”
“Daisy, I . . .” (He realized then, that he had nothing left to say.)
“No, Joe Bob,” she said, “God help me, I was willing to do anything—anything—just to be with you and now I’ve lost you. Now I’m with you, you don’t want me. Why would you? Your precious wife is nothing but a whore. I’ve made such a royal bloody mess of everything.” (And she had cried.)
(Joe Bob was calm then. He remembered being calm, all of a sudden.) “No, Daisy, we’ll figure this out. I’ve made an appointment for us to see a doctor in the morning. Get us both well again. You’ll see, we’ll figure this out.”
(He also remembered that when they went to bed that night that they didn’t touch each other. First time that whenever they were together that had happened.)
“. . . and of course,” Dr. Fong continued, “You mustn’t have sex until you’re both cured. Can’t have you reinfecting one another.”
* * * * *
It had taken Harold Chapman two days to get from Pearl to San Diego, where he and his wife Jill made their home. Jill was not well, and the doctors couldn’t seem to figure out what was wrong. Hal pulled every string in the book to get this leave. She looked tired and pale when he first arrived, but seemed to perk up after his first two days home. But maybe that was only wishful thinking. He certainly hoped not.
Hal looked more like an accountant than a naval officer: balding, gaunt, a shade under six feet, he was the person you knew whose clothes always seemed too big for him. He had graduated in 1937 from the Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point, N.Y., and had immediately applied for a commission in the Navy. Kings Point graduates were much in demand in the Navy; their training made them superb seamen and expert marine engineers, well versed in every aspect of steam boilers and diesel engines.
His first duty station as an ensign was aboard the heavy cruiser USS St. Augustine, home-ported in San Diego. It was while serving aboard the St. Augustine that he became interested in submarines and in the submarine service. He applied for Officer’s Submarine School, was accepted, and graduated near the top of his class in May, 1939. While he was still in Sub School, he was promoted to Lt. j.g.
He returned to San Diego for his first boat, USS S-28. It was during this tour that he met a petite brunette named Jill Jeanerette. They were married in 1940.
In May, 1942, S-28 left San Diego for her first war patrol, off the Aleutian Islands. Hal made another four war patrols, developing a reputation for maintaining a cool head under pressure. It was during his fourth war patrol, when now Lt. Hal Chapman received orders to new construction, the USS Orca, in Groton, Connecticut.
Hal felt that he and his wife were just getting really reacquainted when it was time to leave her again, and return to Pearl. He was certain then that she definitely looked much better than when he arrived, and she assured him that she indeed felt much better. His orders said he had to report back aboard on November 2nd. Jill was unhappy to have to say goodbye to her husband once again; it seemed that they were always saying goodbye. But she was the wife of a naval officer, and saying goodbye came with the job. And, if asked, Jill Chapman would say that the only regret her marriage to Hal had brought her was that, so far, they had been unable to have children.
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American forces landed on Bougainville Island in New Guinea on November 1, 1943, and had established a firm beachhead by the next day. The island was declared secured the end of the month, but isolated pockets of resistance from ragged and starving die-hard Japanese troops actually lasted until the end of the war.
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It was at 0800 on the morning of November 2, 1943, and the officers and crew of USS Orca were assembled on deck. Bucky shouted “To!” and everyone on deck dropped their salute. But then, instead of the “Dismissed!” that everyone expected, Bucky shouted “Attention to Orders!”
Except for Jake, Clem, Hal Chapman, and Bucky, everyone aboard Orca that morning, including many back from leave or extended R&R at the Royal Hawaiian, wondered exactly what was up.
No one had missed the fact that Clem was now sporting oak leaves on his collar, but there was real surprise when Clem read his orders detaching him from Orca and directing him to report aboard Moray for his PCO cruise.
Hal Chapman was still in shock, having only found out about his new assignment when he returned from leave the day before. Still, he read his orders in the same calm, controlled voice that everyone had come to associate with him. Mr. Chapman was to be their new XO. For many in the crew, this, at least, made up for Orca losing Mr. Dwyer.
Finally, Jake informed the crew that they had five days to get Orca ready for deployment, and that they would be leaving for patrol the following Monday morning, November 8th.
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“Cracker!” Jake exclaimed, when he recognized an old friend sitting at the table along with several other Marine officers and two Naval officers, both Lt. j.g.s whom he didn’t recognize.
Major Forrest “Cracker” Dilling, USMC, rose, smiling broadly, to grasp Jake’s extended hand.
With Jake that morning was Hal Chapman, who Dilling recognized, and while he nodded to Hal by way of greeting, he asked Jake, “Where’s Dwyer?”
“Later,” Jake said, in deference to the parade of brass that was just entering the room. Jake recognized Marine Corps Gen. Julian Smith, Adm. Raymond Spruance, and the same Army lieutenant colonel (what was his name?) who had attended the meeting last June in this same room, just after Orca’s second patrol. That had been the patrol that had been responsible for Orca’s only casualty to date, QM2(SS) Arnold “Squid” Phillips.
Also in the group this time were Cpt. Macdonough, Adm. Lockwood, and a Marine colonel Jake didn’t recognize, but who wore the gold-braided aiguillette on his shoulder that identified him as the general’s aide. The colonel promptly moved to the board set up at one end of the room and unrolled a map of a place Jake recognized immediately: Tarawa.
